


Worship Not These False Idols

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Pegging, Roleplay, Substitution, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the summer that Dean is dead and in Hell, Ruby pushes all of Sam's buttons, including those he's never let himself admit he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship Not These False Idols

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn to answer my own prompt (Ruby roleplays as Dean). I didn't post the last part of this on the meme, since that bit isn't really porn.

"This doesn't change anything," Ruby was saying as they came through the motel room door. Sam barely heard her. The drive had passed in a blurred haze of bright agony, and he only recognized that the pain had started to ease when the acid yellow lights in the parking lot ramped it back up to excruciating. It shouldn't have hurt so bad, exorcising one stupid demon. They'd been practicing for weeks. He'd thought he was ready to take on Lilith, and here he was, his brains practically stir-fried in his head from pulling one nameless lackey out of its meat suit while somewhere, Lilith was laughing at him. He was no closer to killing her than he'd ever been. The bitter self-loathing made him sicker than the pain.

"Sam, listen to me. It wasn't your fault, okay? If you wanna blame someone, then blame Lilith. She knew you weren't ready, and she deliberately showed up here, knowing you couldn't resist taking a shot. Look on the bright side. You did it! You pulled that demon like a champ. Next time, we'll be ready." Ruby was high on adrenalin, and he was grateful for what she'd done, but his own momentary exultation was wearing off fast. He hadn't slept in three days, and reality was coming down hard.

The ironic part was how much she sounded like Dean. She always sounded like Dean, like that was supposed to make it better. And like Dean, she'd saved his ass—again. Sam was so tired of screwing up. It seemed like all he knew how to do any more.

Ruby dogged his heels as he headed straight for the minibar. Sobriety hadn't been the easiest thing in the world, but he'd given it his best shot. Well, fuck that.

"This was a wake up call," she was saying, "that's all. You can't let your anger control you, Sam. It's gonna kill you."

"Stop!" Sam snapped, unable to bear it. He stiff-armed her away, hard enough to hurt if she'd been human. "Just stop. I don't want to hear it."

He could feel her eyes on him, but he was past caring. Mercifully, she stopped talking; he crossed the last few feet to the cabinet and fumbled the key out of his pocket, jamming it in the door. His hands shook as he pulled out tiny bottles of vodka, rum, scotch. The first one tasted better than anything he'd ever drunk in his life.

He finished it without stopping and wiped his mouth. "There's no point," he told her. "You were right, okay? I'm not ready, and I'm never gonna be. She's been five steps ahead of us from the beginning."

"So?" She spread her hands. "You have me, now. And if you'd pay attention now and then—"

He shook his head. "Look, Ruby, I'm grateful. I am. But this isn't gonna work. I can't keep doing this."

"So, Dean died for nothing. Great. I'm sure he'd be glad to know that."

He turned on her faster than thought. His hand closed around her throat and fierce satisfaction surged in him as her small form flew backward and slammed into the wall. He'd caught her off guard; for a second he thought he saw real fear in her eyes before she recovered and her hands flew up to grip his wrist with demon strength. He could do it, he thought, cold fury overtaking him. She'd manipulated him for weeks, and he'd let her for the sake of what she could teach him, but that was never more than a temporary arrangement. What was to stop him from ripping her out of this poor dead girl's body and sending her back to Hell, where she belonged? If it turned his brains to jelly, he didn't much care. This one last thing, he could do.

But she met his eyes without flinching. Her new face had become familiar, and it was hard to think of her as a monster when she was up against him like this, warm and alive and smelling like sweat and motel shampoo and gun oil. A dark bruise was coming up on her cheekbone where the other demon had hit her, and she still had blood at the corner of her mouth.

Fairness overcame him, and then grief, hard on its heels. She'd saved his life tonight. Maybe more times than he could count, these last few weeks. Send her back to Hell? It was the one place he wanted to go. Dean had been burning there for weeks while Sam was up here, impotent and powerless. Despair gripped him, and it felt like it was setting in for winter. Everything Dean had sacrificed for him, and Sam couldn't even kill one infuriating, manipulative demon.

In his blind exhaustion and to his furious mortification, his face twisted and tears threatened to choke him. He didn't want her dead. All he wanted tonight was to get drunk and cry for his brother in peace. He squeezed her throat tighter, then let her go, not gently. "Get out."

She didn't move. "Yeah, not happening."

"Ruby, I swear to God—"

"God's not here. Looks like I'm all you've got."

He twisted open another bottle and choked on the liquor in his haste to get it down. The flush it brought teased him with the elusive promise of oblivion, though he knew from experience it wouldn't be enough. He flung the empty bottle in the trash and reached for a third. "I don't know what you want from me."

She sounded sad when she said, "If you'd stop fighting yourself so hard, this could be so much easier." When he didn't say anything, she went on, closing the distance he'd put between them. "You're stronger than you know. Stronger than Ava was—stronger than anybody. Pulling a demon is nothing to what you could do if you wanted it bad enough. But you keep stopping yourself. The problem is _you,_ Sam. You're afraid of it. You're afraid of what it'll make you. And as long as that's true, I can't help you."

"So what am I supposed to do? Not care? I've been trying to do that for a year." He dumped the rest of the bottles in a pile on the bed and sat down on the edge. It took the last strength he had to unlace his boots and pull them off.

Ruby came closer, and he couldn't help remembering his one night of weakness. Dean had been a week in the grave, and Sam had been well on his way to falling apart in earnest. She'd crossed the room to him like that, and he'd been sitting like he was now. He hadn't touched her since.

As he watched from beneath lowered eyelids, Ruby bent down and pulled the knife from its sheath. She sidled close, turning the blade idly in her hand, then pricked the end of her finger with the tip. Sam frowned. She watched the blood well.

"What you need," she said, "is something to help you tap into that power. A little push, to get you past the walls you've put up in your head."

She glanced up, then, the challenging look he remembered from when her eyes had been blue, her hair blonde. This body was more fragile, more dangerous. The full lips, the strong nose, those dark eyes giving the illusion of soulful vulnerability. Her hair was soft and thick, and felt good on the skin. Knowing all that didn't help him much, or make him proof against it. He was young, his body healthy and strong, and he'd been alone for so long.

Seeing him watching her, she moved between his legs, reached out and traced the shape of his lower lip with the finger she'd pricked, smearing the blood, then slipped the tip inside. His tongue flicked out to taste without conscious will. It tasted salty, metallic. He closed his eyes. It tasted like life.

With effort, he made himself remember that this body was dead. The only person in the world who gave a damn about him wasn't a person at all. This was demon blood, undead, unnatural, and unholy; he could feel it, curdling in his own blood. He should have felt sick, but there was a strange hunger stirring in him. He meant to reach out and push her away; instead, instinctively, he grabbed on to her wrist and pulled her closer, drawing her finger deeper into his mouth and sucking hard at the tiny wound.

"That's it," Ruby murmured. "You can feel it, can't you?"

Sam opened his eyes. He could feel it, hot in his veins. The pain in his head receded to half strength, and the endorphin rush from that alone was heady stuff. Dean's amulet rested against his chest like a brand, and he drew a deep breath, feeling more alive than he'd felt in longer than he could remember. His heart was beating too fast. What was she doing to him?

He let her go, though it cost him to do it. She sucked on her own finger, and his mouth watered, watching her. His dick stirred.

He must have betrayed himself; her eyes sparkled. Her wet finger slid out of her mouth and with slow, mesmerizing deliberation, she brought the gleaming blade of the knife to her lips, nicking a tiny cut there.

He couldn't look away. His heart rate had sped to double; she launched herself at him, pressing him down to the bed, straddling him and kissing him deep, the blood welling into his mouth.

His arousal surged. She moved against him, her breasts and the heat of her cunt pressing through her clothes, her blood sticky and sweet on his tongue. He bit her lip, tearing the cut open wider. It made him feel strong, alive again. In control. Desperate for more of that feeling, he surged up and grabbed hold of her, turned them over, blanketing her body.

"Easy, tiger," she laughed.

It roused his anger and his lust further. He growled at her and rubbed his body against hers in a long, full roll of muscle and heat to shut her up. He held her down, hand locked around her wrist against the bed; he got her pants down and his own and didn't bother with a condom before licking her once, deeply, then again; she was wet already and the taste and smell of her pushed him over the edge of rational thought. He'd never in his life ignored Dean's first sex ed lesson— _rule number one, always be prepared, Sammy, you hear me?_ —but he did now, his cock seeking her small, wet pussy and forcing its way in between her thighs.

Christ, she felt good. So wet and slick, and hotter than he remembered—he started fucking her before he half-knew what he was doing. Long, deep thrusts, and Sam knew it was wrong, but she'd been right about that, it only made him want it more. Some detached part of him thought it was hilarious that humans were so fucked up. It was wrong, and bad, and he shouldn't, but that just made it better.

She was pinned by her jeans half down her thighs, and by his grip on her right wrist, but she had one hand free and that was enough to grab him by the haunch and urge him on, then to slip small fingers between his buttocks and play with his ass while he fucked her. That light touch made him suddenly desperate. It'd been a long time since anyone had done that to him, and he'd forgotten how much it turned him on. "Yeah?" she said, breathless. She let go of the knife in her other hand. "Grab me some lube out of my bag, and I'll show you how good it can be."

She'd been _planning_ this. He bit her at the throat, short of drawing blood. The last thing in the world he should do was trust her, but he was past caring. He snaked an arm over the edge of the bed to where her backpack rested. "In the front," she told him, and within a moment he'd found the small tube.

He lifted his hips so he could fuck her while she fingered him. It made his face heat, but God, it felt good—Jess had never done more than touch him there, but now he was being opened up and violated and he loved it. Her fingers thrust into him as he fucked her. The alcohol buzz had loosened him up enough to really appreciate her long, slender fingers. The amulet swung between them. As he was about to come she grabbed hold of it and laid it against her bloody lower lip, then sucked it into her mouth, her eyes hot on his, knowing. He came in a violent rush, his fist in her hair, and it was such a relief to feel something good, something purely physical and good, that he wanted to cry.

While he was half unconscious, she got up and rummaged in her bag. He watched through slitted eyes while she got naked and put on a strap-on, the harness made of narrow, black leather strips and the dildo made of soft, realistic silicon. His face flamed. What, had she _guessed?_ Was he that easy to read? His heart started beating fast and uneven. "No. We're not doing that."

"Come on, don't pretend you don't want it." She slipped her fingers between his buttocks where he was slippery with lube, and when she put them in his ass he shivered all over, and his dick tried its best to come again. It felt good. Better than good. She climbed on the bed and leaned over him. "I know you, Sam. Better than you think."

"No, you don't." But he was getting hard again, the thrill of terror and shame only making him burn hotter. She'd planned this, too, which said more than he wanted to know, about both of them. He did want it. The strap-on was pink and lifelike and looked obscene between her legs, and he wanted it.

"Trust me, it'll be worth it. Come on, work with me here."

The blood sang in his body, and before he knew it he was letting her manhandle him into position on his hands and knees. His face glowed with heat and he knew there were reasons he shouldn't do this, dire reasons besides the fact that it was wrong, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He was hard again, but that was nothing to the weightless, desperate curl of heat in his belly that wanted this more than he should. It'd been years since he'd let himself think about it. Even with Jess, even when he thought he was never going to see Dean again, he'd known this was a road he didn't dare start down, because if he did—

"It's okay, Sammy," Ruby said, low, and Sam let out an involuntary gasp and shuddered. His eyes squeezed shut. It was obscene. It was the most obscene thing he could think of, him on his hands and knees desperate to be fucked and that name on her tongue like she had any right, like anyone did—but he couldn't help the way his body reacted, an involuntary shiver of sick longing that felt like it grabbed hold of every part of him. God. He couldn't.

"Nobody's gonna know," she said. "Just between us." Her hands stroked his hips, not like a girl's delicate touch but strong and firm and he could hear the cap of the lube snapping open. He was starting to go out of his head because she even sounded like him. Easy to shut his eyes and imagine—

"That's it, you can trust me," she said, her voice rough, and he didn't know if it was some demon trick or the hot, drugged feeling her blood had given him but it really did sound like him, and God help him, Sam had never let himself think about this openly, but now it was all he could think about. She opened him up and his thighs started to shake, his whole body trembling in anticipation. The strap-on was a smooth, blunt pressure against his ass, cool and slick with lube, but it wasn't hard to imagine strong hips and thighs and the smell of his soap, soft flannel and strong arms— Sam's heart was in his throat, his stomach and chest one huge knot of shame and denial, but it was too late to pretend—she knew. And it was such a relief to stop pretending. Such a relief to let himself feel what he'd always felt, always wanted.

"This is going to feel so good, little brother," she said against his ear, and gooseflesh rushed over him as he choked back the violent protest locked in his throat. He couldn't do this. It was the worst kind of betrayal of everything good he'd ever known.

But she twisted her fingers into his hair and forced his head down. A blunt, hard pressure shoved against his opening. She pushed the strap-on into his ass with a slow, steady thrust that felt like it might split him apart. The denial in his head was deafening, but he held still for it, braced himself against it, a high, choked sound escaping him as he panted and shuddered and tried to relax enough to let the thing fully invade him. His hands were fists knotted in the sheets, his face hot and wet and desperate, buried against his forearm. He didn't deserve to keep anything good.

"It's okay. I'm here." Her voice shifted lower. "I've got you, Sammy."

He sobbed. "God, shut up. Please, just—"

She started fucking him, and he gave a low, broken moan. She was the last creature on earth he could trust, he knew that, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything any more except the hot flush in his veins and the absolute relief of being helpless and penetrated and held tight. For the first time in a year, maybe in his life, he wasn't terrified. There was no room for it. The thing was so big inside him, and she took him with deep, strong thrusts, her hand locked on the back of his neck, fingers wrenching painfully in his hair, pushing him down into the mattress. She fucked him like that, steady and relentless so there was no space to breathe, the throb of feeling that came at the peak of each thrust building stronger and stronger until his body shook uncontrollably with it and he couldn't hold back his sobbing breaths. Dean, he thought, and as soon as he let himself think the name he started to come. Oh, God. His orgasm grabbed hold of him, and he couldn't fight it, couldn't even think about trying to control it. When it finally crested he cried out, came so hard he saw stars, and his self-loathing flooded him in a rush, but he couldn't help it. Oh, God, Dean.

And he thought, Hell has to take me now. There's nowhere else I can go.

* * *

_Pontiac, Illinois  
Five months later_

Sam let himself into the honeymoon suite with its lurid, cheerless red decor. It was Ruby's idea of a joke. Sam figured it was ugly enough that it fit.

"It's about time," Ruby said from where she lounged on the bed. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

Sam closed the door and dropped his keys on the coffee table. "I could say the same thing."

"Aw, baby, don't be like that." She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows, letting him get a good view down the deep vee of her tight, good-girl, short-sleeved plaid shirt.

But he wasn't in the mood to play games. He was worn out from driving all night, then spending most of the day trying to track down a pack of demons, and it had been too long since the last time she'd deigned to come around. She always had a good excuse, but he suspected she did it on purpose, leaving him hanging so he'd jump when she called.

"Cut the crap," he said, unbuttoning his shirt. "Whatever these guys are up to, I'm sure it's nothing good. I want to wipe them off the face of the earth before they get a chance to hurt anybody."

Ruby smiled, her crooked, flirty smile that affected him more than he cared to admit. She knelt up on the bed and started to unbutton her own shirt. "Oh, Sammy. You know I love it when you get all noble."

"Don't." But she'd shed her blouse, and his eyes betrayed him, skimming over her smooth, unmarked skin, her high breasts and small nipples peaking in the cool air. "I told you never to call me that."

Her brows arched. "You told me a lot of things, but we both know talk is cheap."

On that, they could agree. Sam pulled his T-shirt off, then slipped his short blade out of the sheath at his belt, and the way her eyes glittered as she tracked it told him she was in the mood to play rough. That was fine by him. He pushed her back on the bed and straddled her, still wearing his jeans and boots. Her wrists fit easily in one hand, and he held them above her head and the knife between his teeth while he went to work getting her jeans open.

Sam was careful. Not for her sake, but wary of scaring the housekeeping staff, he kept the cuts small and precise. One to the inside of her thigh, where the blood flowed gently and sweet; he tugged her jeans down and drank there first, barely aware of the sounds she made or the smell of her arousal. The first rush of it after so long without was dangerous—he started slow so that he wouldn't lose control. Only when he'd taken the edge off would he take blood from her wrist. He would need a lot of juice to take on a whole pack, and they both knew it; she didn't deny him, murmuring encouragements when he made the last cut and drank deep.

She healed fast. Barely a smear of blood marked the sheets. Power flowed through him, better than any drug. "That's my boy," she said, in that low, raspy voice that made anticipation of a different kind start to build low in his belly.

He fought her these days, more often than not. Especially when he was fully juiced up, things could get rough, and this time was no different. The rage ran hot in him, the desire to kill burning near the surface. A pack of demons was reason enough, and the best possible outlet for the darkness inside him. He'd never taken it out on her, not really, but it was a relief not to have to worry about hurting her. Sometimes, she even let him pretend she was forcing him.

His pretenses didn't matter. She knew what he wanted, and so did he, and they ended up at the place they always did, with her cock inside him and Dean's voice in his head. Sam hated himself for it, but that was what he excelled at, these days; hating himself was a big part of what kept him going.

* * *

Afterwards, she lounged naked in the bed and said, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, "Dean's on his way here."

His hands fumbled at his belt, suddenly nerveless as blind fury sheeted across his vision. He didn't think he'd heard her right. On a breathless laugh, he said, "What did you say?"

"Are you deaf? I said Dean'll be here soon, and we'd better get our story straight." He stared at her. "Come on, you really think he's going to understand about us? About this?" She fingered the welt on her thigh and smeared the blood.

He clamped down hard on the instinct to violence with an effort that cost him. Was this a joke? Of course, he knew it had to be, one of her mind games and she was fucking with his head.

"Right. Hilarious." Dark promise underlaid his voice—he let her push him in a lot of ways, but this wasn't one of them. "I don't know what kind of messed up game you think you're playing, but that's enough."

She sat up. "It's not a joke, Sam. It's real. Word on the street is, Dean's out of Hell. I don't know how, or why, but he's headed this way and you better be ready to put your game face on, because we've come too far to let him stop us."

She was serious. All at once Sam couldn't breathe. Hot reaction jolted deep in his body, a gutshot stab of hope he could no more control than he could stop his heart.

Ruby made an impatient gesture. "Are you even hearing what I'm saying?"

 _Dean._ Alive. On his way here right now. Sam tried to get his head around it. He realized he was shaking so badly it was probably obvious from ten feet away, but even as the wave of feeling threatened to crest he forced it down, pushing it aside and cataloguing, weighing options, the fight or flight reaction that had kept him alive more times than he could count.

He started to pace, because it was either that or jump out of his skin. The blood had him keyed up, ready for a fight. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "How?" he demanded. "When?"

She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. The important thing is, he's coming, and I figured I better warn you."

" _Warn_ me?" He snagged on the phrasing. "Is it him or not?"

"Were you always this dumb, or is it the orgasm talking?" At the dire look he shot her, she changed tack, getting up and coming close. "Look, even if it is him, you need to think carefully about the consequences here. Your brother means well, but he's never understood this part of you, and he never will." Despite himself, he watched her move, having a hard time concentrating on what she was saying. It was always hard to think clearly after one of their sessions, and it was worse now, so many conflicting reactions flooding him that he couldn't name them.

As if sensing she had him, she hit the perfect note of persuasion and plain truth that he found hardest to resist. "We can't let him get in the way of what we've started here, Sam. Lilith has to be stopped, and there’s nobody else who can do it. You know that. This is bigger than you and your brother."

 _Your brother._ It overwhelmed him, then. He'd given up. It was written all over him, all over Ruby and this room, how completely he'd given up. What was wrong with him? What would Dean say, if he could see him now? If he knew— Sam felt sick.

He could kill her, he thought coolly, studying her upturned face. For a second, the desire was so strong it was a close thing.

Then his perception shifted and his innate sense of justice overcame him, as it had a hundred times since they'd started down this path. No one to blame but himself. He'd made his own choices. She'd manipulated him, but he'd known what he was doing all along. All she'd done was save his life and give him what he wanted.

He dug in his duffel and pulled on a clean T-shirt, then hastily stripped off the top sheet and made the bed. He balled the sheet up and stuffed it in the closet, then went into the bathroom and scrubbed at his face, getting rid of the traces of blood and rinsing out his mouth. When he came back into the room, Ruby was where he'd left her, looking for all the world like a normal girl.

"You're right," he told her. "Dean can't know about us. He can't know about you. Not yet." He heard himself saying it and barely recognized his own voice.

She used the wet cloth he gave her, then snagged her tank top and pulled it on, covering up. "You know we can't keep it from him forever."

"No, but I can—" There was a knock at the door, solid and familiar. He froze. Swallowed hard. He would have known it anywhere. A cold sweat broke over him, his heart pounding, his pulse thready and panicked.

Ruby turned toward the door. He thought he caught the hint of a smile. "It's okay, Sam," she said. "I got this one."

* end *


End file.
